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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739640">Between the bars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/easiIyamused/pseuds/easiIyamused'>easiIyamused</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Penumbra Podcast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety Attacks, Character Study, Other, Peter Nureyev Needs a Hug, Unreliable Narrator, but in the mean time he's struggling, he is not okay, promise i'll make this into fluff later, set between ultrabots and heart of it all, so like you can read this whenever, third and second perspective? it's confusing because he's all muddled</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:41:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>859</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739640</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/easiIyamused/pseuds/easiIyamused</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'That was a long time ago. Now Peter eats when he likes (not when he can help it) and does what he likes (what his debtors or his ‘family’ tell him to do.) But he still can’t sleep before missions. Which is fine, because he has more time to study. So study, you moron.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nureyev pulls an all-nighter because he has two brain cells and they've both been lost in his nasty messy room.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Between the bars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>content warning for some vague mentions of suicidal ideation and one of body horror! please be careful.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s not a whole lot of light in space. Rather, there is technically light in space, but it doesn’t look like it. Especially not when you’re knee-deep in the furthest sphere of the Outer Rim in a little messy cabin in a rickety ship with a day and night lighting system that desperately needs some maintenance. </p>
<p>Of course, a person could turn on one of the many lamps in their room. They could find a string of fairy lights in the junk room, ‘borrow’ some candles from the common room, work in the kitchen, anything to alleviate the stifling darkness of the room they are sitting in. </p>
<p>But Peter Nureyev simply does not. Instead, he remains crouched on the mass of debris that was a bed at one point, hunched over his comms screen. The blue light is hurting his eyes, he’s straining them, they must be all red and blotchy, but he can’t move, can’t turn the lights on. He has to get this into his brain, commit it to memory. They leave in six hours. </p>
<p>
  <i>A Lorem Claxis vehicle can be disabled through the use of a plasmoid knife or multitool with a series of incisions, beginning with one on the Forty green buttons in a row beside the Easter Island Memorial trust on the lonely planet of Small mammals are, contrary to popular opinion, some of the most useful tools in a thief’s arsenal-<i></i></i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>Peter blinks hard. It’s almost impossible to focus his eyes- they keep skipping lines. He’s dimly aware that he hasn’t taken a breath for some seconds, not since he realised that he has been effectively ingesting a load of gibberish for the past two hours. He looks down at his notes. Incoherent. Unfinished sentences, backward letters, Brahmese jargon which doesn’t even make sense if he translates it. <i>Useless.<i> It’s hot in his cabin, too hot. He should turn on the AC. He should. He doesn’t.</i></i></i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Everything feels too hot all of a sudden. Or maybe it always did, and he’s only just become aware of it. Nureyev’s hands feel sticky where they grasp his comms in one hand and his notepad in the other. Such a pretension, writing by hand, Juno had said. Had rolled his eyes when Peter scowled at him without comment and kept scribbling. Had left a little while later without fanfare. When was that? Today? Last night? Hard to remember. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Thinking feels so difficult, these days.</i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>Peter’s gripped by a fantasy of splitting his own head open and forcing the information into it manually. How convenient that would be. Then, he’s gripped by a fantasy of splitting his head open and dying and being free of how his eyes ache, how the skin above his eyebrows wrinkles, how his heart races like he’s just done a hundred-meter sprint all the time. So childish, so dramatic. He’s just being dramatic. He needs to memorise this. It’s the least he can do. It’s the least you can do for them, Nureyev. Come on. </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>When did his hands start shaking? His mouth feels dry. <i>A Lorem Claxis vehicle can be disabled through the use of a plasmoid knife or multitool with a series of incisions, beginning with one on it’s left accelerators undermost corner.<i> Good. Keep going. Peter takes a shaky breath and scribbles a little diagram of the incision, but his drawing is worse than usual. Idiot. No chance of referring to that. </i></i></i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>
          <i>
            <i>Nureyev’s pounding heart is uncomfortably loud now, far too loud. He’s gotten so old. Maybe his heart will give up on him. That would be good, in a strange, awful way. The dead can’t have debts, and he has no next of kin for the burden to be transferred to. What a comforting thought. All gone, just like that. Maybe he’ll run a lap of the ship, encourage it to give out. He almost laughs at that, but his mouth is all gummed up, so he just splutters. </i>
          </i>
        </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>
          <i>
            <i>Even before a certain incident in a floating city, Peter was a restless little beggar. Reluctant to sleep, to contemplate, to ‘take a second, Pete, Christ.’ Especially on the nights before jobs. Even the smallest intel-gathering mission would have him bouncing off the walls, jumping from foot to foot. The man who was sort of his father, and sort of really, really not, would sometimes resort to threats of canceling the mission or taking away food if he didn’t calm down. That was a long time ago. Now Peter eats when he likes (not when he can help it) and does what he likes (what his debtors or his ‘family’ tell him to do.) But he still can’t sleep before missions. </i>
          </i>
        </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <i>
      <i>
        <i>
          <i>
            <i>Which is fine, because he has more time to study. So study, you moron. His eyes ache so badly, they’re so heavy. He’s dimly aware of being nauseous. He looks back to the screen, and perhaps in reaction to trying to learn about the stupid fucking Lorem Claxis for the thousandth time that night, Peter Nureyev falls- literally falls, off the balls of his feet and face-first onto a pile of paper- into a thankless, anxious, nightmare-ridden sleep.</i>
          </i>
        </i>
      </i>
    </i>
  </i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>listen! if anyone at all likes this i will write a fluffy second chapter to soothe our aching hearts. comments r good for the soul. the crew should be on the snuggle bus but they're on the struggle bus and that sucks ass. my best friend is worried that peter might have some new cognitive issues impacting his memory so that's sort of inspired this but mostly it's my own dysfunction. uni is hard. hope u had a lovely day xx</p></blockquote></div></div>
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